Steven insisted for what felt like the dozenth time. “The doctor said you’ll be off solids for a fortnight,” Troy replied, unimpressed. “Everyone knows doctors over-state these things,” Steve argued. “It’s in case something goes wrong, so their arse is covered. Trust me. Nothing will slow my recovery.” Troy snorted and remained impassive. Steve sighed. At any other time he’d be pleased by the fact they already bickered like an old married couple. Right now, though, he needed to remind himself how bloody painful it currently was to laugh. Even doped up on the maximum dose of morphine he could wheedle from his colleagues, it still hurt like a fury when he laughed. Or gasped. Or clenched his stomach for any other reasons. “You could have brought me a six-pack of beer,” Steve groused. He didn’t really mean it, but anything to keep Troy’s mind occupied was currently a good thing. “Or even some Guinness. What happened to alcohol solving every problem?” “That Matron would take anything remotely looking like contraband from me,”
